For Poems Are Like Rainbows; They Escape

Money And Art Are Far Apart.

What Happens To A Dream Deferred? Does It Dry Up Like A Raisin In The Sun? ... Or Does It Explode?

I Loved My Friend He Went Away From Me There's Nothing More To Say The Poem Ends, Soft As It Began- I Loved My Friend.

What Happens To A Dream Deferred?

This Is The Mountain Standing In The Way Of Any True Negro Art In America - This Urge Within The Race Toward Whiteness, The Desire To Pour Racial Individuality Into The Mold Of American Standardization, And To Be As Little Negro And As Much American As Possible.